


Things Needed to be Said (But Never Spoken)

by TheRedAssassin



Series: A Difference Time Can Make [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: //shrugs//, Alternate Ending, Angst, Feels, I might add more to this, I'm not sure how to tag this, all the feels, because i like hurting, but i kinda want something to jump off, my heart, so might be one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:52:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedAssassin/pseuds/TheRedAssassin
Summary: A few seconds can make a difference.





	1. Chapter 1

This isn't exactly how he though he would die. He expected a grand fanfare; a shootout, a hostage situation gone wrong, an unfortunate miscalculation. 

But this was miscalculation wasn't it? 

Reality tunneling into a dark hole while his drug addled hands uselessly grasped and pushed against his attacker. Their strength sapped away from the beat down he had taken hours earlier from John. 

John.

Another miscalculation wrapped in another. Both he and Marry had miscalculated. 

John wasn't here to save him, from himself or otherwise. 

He had so much to say to John. So many things left unsaid and unresolved. 

He thought he had more time; a better, more perfect time. 

Things he needed to say. 

Everything shimmered like rolling water on a sunny day. He couldn't be sure if it was lack of oxygen or the thought of John making everything distort. 

A fire scratched in his throat; the gloved hands of the killer tightening as if he sensed the last string of life slowly being sheared off. 

There was a shout from somewhere beyond the room and desperate clanging of metal as dull darkness swallowed him. 

 

Perhaps in another place and time he would've gotten a chance to say what he wanted to say.


	2. Chapter 2

His hands are shaking as he bludgeons the locked handle.  
The red metal almost like sprayed blood as he knocks the handle off.

There's a dead tone ringing through the door but he can't hear it over the roaring in his ears.

A chant, a mantra.

Please be okay.  


I'm sorry.

It keeps repeating like a scratched disk or looping record.

Metal clatters to the ground as he kicks the handle-less door in. Hinges screeches at the abuse. 

Red eats at his vision when he spots the short ugly man standing over Sherlock. Rubber-gloved hand posed over his mouth and nose.  
Sanctification scrawled over his face.  
A slimy rat.

He ripping Culverton away from Sherlock.  
His cold hands throws the man against the wall. 

Something icy and slippery grips his chest and throat as he looks at Sherlock's face.

Glassy icy eyes stared off into nothing; wet lines on cheeks still glistening.

His lips smooth to touch and linger with the taste of stale sweet garlic. 

He's shoving humid air down into Sherlock's mouth and lungs before he even know it.  
His fingers pinching the nose close, similar to a different set of hands done earlier.

A beat.  
Then two.

He's pumping over Sherlock's heart; trying to have his non-existent heart beating again.

Thump.  
Thump.  
Thump.

In the back of his mind, he can hear the dull tone of the monitor.  
The shouting of several nurses.  
Rumbling of the crash cart.  
Clattering of shoes.

But it's all ignored. 

The rhythm must go on.

Thump.  
Thump.  
Thump.


End file.
